


Love Me Naked

by sippingonstardust



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Tim Drake Imagine, Tim Drake Smut, Tim Drake X Reader - Freeform, Tim Drake X Y/N, Tim Drake x You
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 15:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16875180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sippingonstardust/pseuds/sippingonstardust
Summary: His lips are tacky with your lip gloss and the taste of the champagne you were drinking is bright on his tongue. He can’t even imagine how he’s going to focus on climbing stock rates and pitch investments when all he wants to do is hike your dress up and lap at you till you come undone on his tongue.





	Love Me Naked

**Author's Note:**

> Based of this Drabble http://prettylittlebrownskingyal.tumblr.com/post/180470045514/70-and-72-for-dick-or-timbo

It’s hell to walk back out into a room full of people when he knows he looks like carnal desire defined. His lips are tacky with your lip gloss and the taste of the champagne you were drinking is bright on his tongue. He can’t even imagine how he’s going to focus on climbing stock rates and pitch investments when all he wants to do is hike your dress up and lap at you till you come undone on his tongue.

It isn’t just want that needles him. It’s the emptiness of having to live without you by his side. He misses you. The hollowness sits deep inside him, far past tears and begging and bartering. It's a hurt that he just carries, wears like a badge on his chest but hides behind his moneyed smile and twinkly eyes. Bruce frowns at it, disapproving. Dick looks concerned. Jason and Damian pity him. He hates it all but he still loves you so much.

You follow him out, stalking past him in a cloud of flowery perfume that he wants to follow. So he does. Leaving his conversation with a sharp, “ _ Just a second, sir. _ ” because he may be an asshole but he was raised with class after all. You pause in front of the elevator, staring at the detailed doors as though their things of wonder.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He’s very aware of how small he sounds. How close to being broken, and cut open he is.

“Do you?” 

He doesn’t. He has a million things to say but he can’t. The words crawl into his throat fighting and meet their grave on his tongue. The doors slide open fluidly and you hold them for him to get in with you.

_ “I’m not over it.” _

_ “I miss you.” _

The unison with which you both speak makes the words jumble together, but the meaning is clear. Then your both wide eyed, staring at each across the tiny space. A baited breath passes. Then two. On the third you fling yourself across at him and he catches you, pushing you back until the rail of the elevator digs into your spine. His lips bite at your own, angry and sad and wanting all at once.

It's not perfect. It’s messy. Too much and too wanton and too open. There are hands everywhere; yours and his. Trying to touch as much of each other as you can before the elevator dings. When it does, he’s stepping out of your bubble, straightening his collar and rubbing his hand over his kiss bitten lips like he can’t actually believe that happened. There’s a smudge of glittery lip gloss clinging to his bottom lip, more prominent than before.

You look like a  _ wreck _ . You know it. He hasn’t been gentle; his hands have slipped under your clothes to feel you, in your hair to hold you in place, to keep you still. You’re almost too dizzy to walk. Definitely too frazzled to talk. You let him lead you out of the building, a warm hand at your back. It looks like a small, chivalrous gesture but you know its a promise. That kiss on the balcony, the frantic making out in the elevator; it’s all a downpayment. A taste, a little sliver of desire to tide you over.

You’ve been broken up for a month. You haven’t touched him in four weeks and all it took to send you both running at each other with burning want was the sight of Bart with his arm around you. Just for a second, for the quick snap of a picture, and then Tim had his hands on you. Tugging you by your elbow, away from the crowd, looking more like a Robin than a Wayne socialite. 

There’s much you want to say to him in the wake of it all. You want to confess your love, tell him you hate him and  _ cry  _ because you miss him when he isn’t in touching distance. You’re both linked in a way that you can’t help but think is cosmic. You can feel his love in your bones and when he smiles at you, all you can think is  _ forever _ . You would never be able to give him up; he had embedded himself to your soul.

You weren’t keen on giving pieces of him away. But that was who he was. That was the boy you loved irrevocably and inexplicably. Tim would waste away with no sleep, no food and no regard for his needs if there wasn’t someone to remind him of them. When a mission with the Titans hit a speed bump, Tim would be there to smoothen it all out; but he’d be taking a hit in the process, and watching him hurt tore you apart inside. It hollowed your chest out and made your skin burn with sorrow.

He had a habit of reaching for perfection. He was willing to do whatever it took to fix any problem that came his way even if it meant sacrificing a little bit of himself to do it. He was an asshole even when he was trying not to be and he was probably the biggest nerd you’d ever met in your life. But he kissed you like your were  necessary to his survival and he held you like you were unbreakable and you couldn’t help yourself whenever he was involved.

Yet you still loved him. There was nothing he could do that would change that. Even if you were the one that ended it, the minute he showed up at your door you would let him in.

“Wanna take one of B’s cars?” His head was ducked low, battling against the flash of paparazzi cameras. He’d said the words so softly that his lips barely moved.

“No. Are you insane?”

“Our other option is my bike.”

He grabs his keys from the valet and all but glides to the shiny red Ducati that perches at the corner of the driveway. He twirls you around a few times on the way to it, just to see you giggle. The sound of your laughter burns something inside him, bright and alive and dangerous like the rev of his bike. He almost loses it when you tug your dress up to slide on the back of the motorcycle, giving him a delicious glint of skin. You latch onto him tightly as you ride the streets of Gotham. Your arms tucked around his waist, privy to the muscle underneath the suit, the feel of him solid and warm makes you jittery with want.

He doesn’t take you back to his apartment. It’s too far across Gotham and you’re getting impatient, hooking your fingers on his collar, nails digging into his skin. His fingers fumble with the keys to his safe house four times before he just gives up and kicks the lock in. He kisses the startled expression right off your face, caging you in on the now closed door. You idly wonder if you had the strength to even make it to his bed as his mouth licks a line of fire down your neck. He answers your question though, by dropping to his knees in front of you. Your heart stutters in your chest.

“Sometimes I forget how pretty you are,” you hiss. “It’s not  _ fair _ Timmy.”

His hair is damp with sweat, skin flushed pink from the tip of his elegant nose to the slopes of his cheekbones. His lips are red and bitten and the smile he wears is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. With his blue eyes spilling secrets, behind this closed door he isn’t Timothy Drake-Wayne or Red Robin. He’s just Tim.  _ Your Tim _ .

“God.  _ God _ I’ve missed you,” he’s fumbling again. His usually sure fingers tangling with the straps of your shoes. He gives up, hands moving to slide up your ankles, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses as his fingernails scraped sharp lines up to your thighs. He bites at the sensitive skin, licks over it and then bites again when your head thumps against the wooden door. Every movement is slow, precise in a way only Tim could be. He isn’t just moving without thought. He’s chasing pleasure the way he works a case but he’s torturing you for the hell of it.

“By all means,” you breathe, threading your fingers into his dark hair and tugging hard enough that he gasps out a shuddery breath. “Move at a glacial pace, you know it thrills me.”

“Don’t.” He breaks away with barking laughter. His grip on your thighs tightening as his shoulders shake in amusement. “Don’t quote  _ ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ _ to me right now. Its distracting.”

“It’s your favourite movie.”

“Shut up.  _ Shh. _ ”

You squirm, back arching as he disappears under the dress, hot breath fanning over your core. He kisses along the seam of your thighs, gentle and soft. His pace falters between too fast and not quick enough. Time slows around you, sticky and viscous like honey. You grab at the fabric of the dress, bunching it up in tight, clenched fists. He swears when he comes back up, surveying you with dark eyes.

“Please,” you beg, jutting your hips out. “Please Tim. Please.”

His hands replace your own and he dives back in with no mercy. He slips one hand away and curls his fingers into the waistband of your underwear.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. _ Hurry up _ .” 

That was the wrong thing to say clearly. He takes even longer to slide the underwear down your legs. Gratified by the way you shiver and shake, he draws it out more. When his tongue finally slides against your folds, you cry out, torn somewhere between pain and pleasure. It ebbs and flows through your whole body like stop and start lightning. Your head hits the door again, because  _ yes yes yes _ . He’s right where you want him. His tongue flicks at you just right. With enough pressure to have you gasping but easy enough to leave you pressing your body against him.

He knows you. What you like, what you hate. What makes your eyes roll back into your skull. His mouth on your skin is familiar. It feels right. Like a tradition or a habit. The nostalgia of his hands on you never fades, only gets better every time. You anticipate it, like you know that on May fourth every year he has to watch all the Star Wars movies in succession, even the prequels. Even though he  _ hates _ them. Because that’s tradition. His fingers slipping inside you carries that same warmth. Except it's a fire that meets gunpowder as he nibbles on your clit, and your body wracks with the explosion of pleasure.

“Do that thing I lik-- _ shit _ yes.  _ Yes _ pretty bird _ \--fuck _ .”

He has you completely unraveled before him. Ready to fall of the edge as you chant his name like a prayer. It fits because he is something divine. Something  _ angelic.  _ Something so otherworldly that you can’t ever find the words to describe how much you love him. There are three of his fingers in you when you reach your peak, heaven flashes bright white behind your eyelids and three other words for  _ forever _ slip off your tongue clumsily. He laps at you till your shoving his head away, every nerve in your body burning.

“I love you.” You’re voice is gravel, legs shaking and sweat rolls down to collect at the base of your spine. He leans in to kiss you anyways. Tasting yourself on his tongue should be mortifying but instead it fills you with a brand of possessive pride and you can only clutch at him tighter as you lick your way into his mouth. His teeth are straight and clean, the taste of champagne lingers on his tongue and every breath he takes through his nose tickles your skin. Every moan and gasp is yours for the taking.

You don’t make it to the bed. You reach his dining table in your a desperate attempt to find a flat surface. A pile of case files crashes to the floor with a clatter, leaving a mess of papers he’ll complain about in the morning. You both struggle against each other; you want skin on skin  _ now _ but he’s trying to get the zipper on your dress while you attempt to pull his jacket of his shoulders. He stops, clasping your wrists in his and whispers, “Wait. Slow down a sec.”

You halt and he lays his damp forehead against your own. Tim takes deep, long breaths. His fingers are still pressing into your skin and you wait until his eyes are open before you make to move again. He stares down at you, eyes more black than blue, want written so clearly across his face that you blush. With each piece of clothing he divests, you pull the zip on your dress down lower, inch by inch.  _ Forever _ you think when you catch his smile,  _ I want him forever. _

You don’t quite know which deity your begging to. But you thank them all when he all but rips the dress from your body and pushes into you. It’s like coming home. Everything comes sparking to life in vibrant colour with each stuttering thrust. You roll your hips into his, because he loves it when you do that. You bite marks into his pale skin and he murmurs a string of jumbled words into your ear.

“I miss you all the time. I love you. I  _ hate _ that dress you looked  _ so good  _ I wanted you all night.” They flow into each other in one breath.

“I can’t do it. I can’t handle not being with you either,” he pulls back and you gasp at the loss of contact.

_ “Yeah?” _

You nod. Your thighs stick to the table as you try to wiggle closer to him.

“So you’re coming back home?”

“You want me home?”

He snickers again. A little snidely this time. “You really don’t ever listen. You know.”

He slides back into you with new found vigor. His thrusts go from languid to harsh. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills your ears, coupled with both your grunts of pleasure in a simmering cacophony of desire. 

“I always want you.” It’s all he offers between kisses, but its all you need.

You wrap your legs around his slim hips, lean back across his dining table and you let him fuck you like he means it. Because he does. Each kiss and thrust and bite and lick echos the same words you’ve been dancing around all night. The same whispered reassurances and confessions of love. You drink it in, mind hazed over. Your brain short circuits when he presses a finger to your clit, long fingers rubbing in circles. And the heat in your belly, the tight tug of an orgasm meets you for the second time like an old friend.

He holds you through it and right when your blissed out by it, his name echoing off the walls, he comes. Still pressed inside you. He shuffles you both onto the couch with strong, capable arms. When you fall asleep pressed into his chest, the hollowness in his stomach that had been carving him out for weeks finally,  _ finally _ dissolves. 

  
  
  



End file.
